


Sword Hand

by Direwolvesandgriffins



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 15:36:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11129724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Direwolvesandgriffins/pseuds/Direwolvesandgriffins
Summary: LadyTrevelyan awakens to some bad news and the loss of her identity.





	Sword Hand

They say she will never hold a sword again.

When she wakes from the magic induced sleep her first instinct is to stretch. Legs to hips, hips to back to shoulders all the way down to her fingertips. Except there are no fingertips on her right side. Nor are there fingers or a palm more callused than any woman's should be. There is only air, and past the air, there is a stump wrapped in blood-soaked linen. Her first instinct is to scream, to cry until her vocal cords shred; but she cannot. She is the Inquisitor, a leader, and leaders do not fall to despair. Instead, she asks the old woman who changes her bandages when she will be able to leave her bed and return to battle.

The woman only gives a sad shake of her head and rushes out of the room.

Later, her friends crowd around her bed; as it is known that it is best to deliver bad news in a group. Cassandra breaks it to her, saying that she will never be able to fight, to lead a charge against the enemy. Instead, she suggests that she allow others to fight in her name while she commands from the comforts of her Keep.

That is the day that she learns that a punch with her left fist can bloody a nose just as well as one from her right.

A week later, she is in the practice ring; facing off against a young recruit with a blunted blade in her hand. For his protection, not hers. She is able to block four of his blows before she finds herself on her ass in the dirt. Everyone has the sense not to laugh, but that is a small comfort when she sees the pity in their eyes.

Week after week, this goes on and she feels that she is getting better at fighting left-handed. So much better, that at dinner she says that she will be leaving the keep to clear out a pack of bandits that have been attacking a nearby village. The table goes silent before Cassandra tells her that doing so would be foolish.

Later that night, they send Cullen to her to tell her the truth. All those times she thought she won in her sparring matches against the recruits, in truth they had allowed her to beat them. She does scream then. She screams and cries and throws a rather expensive vase at his head as he retreats out of the door. It shatters against the wall an inch to the right.

Gasping for air she slides down to the floor and gazes at the stump that used to be her sword hand. That hand had saved the lives of countless people, had slain dragons, and had flipped through saucy novels on nights when sleep would not come to her. The hand father had put a sword in when she was ten.

Without her sword hand, who was she? That hand was Father, guiding her when she stumbled; unused to the weight of a blade in her little ten-year-old arms, it was Mother, watching with mixed feelings as her little girl showed more promise with sword and shield than she ever would with sewing needles and fine fabric. It was Robert and Malcolm, who lived and died with blades in their hands. Now, it was as gone as they were.

No, she thought I will not let this happen.

Rising to her feet, she made her way out into the hall and down to the practice field. She could feel everyone's eyes on her as she made her to the weapon rack and selected a sword made of fresh forged steel. Surveying the circle around her she found her target.

"Peter," she called to one of the recruits, "arm yourself. We're going to spar, and don't you dare hold back."


End file.
